


In the heat of the moment

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (A/B/O) [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Me, Geralt? I don’t give a whit about the genitalia of my partner, so long as I’m the dominant party. But my- my sickness won’t allow for that- no, not at all. I’ve got to be the one on my back, the one having something shoved inside me. The one being bred like a broodmare. Do you think women truly enjoy it, or do you think they’re just lying?In the heat of the momentTo say or do something without thinking.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher (A/B/O) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598041
Comments: 25
Kudos: 742





	In the heat of the moment

He’d long started to suspect that his new acquaintance was an omega, but he hadn’t felt pressured to bring it up. If Dandelion wasn’t mentioning it - and if it wasn’t impacting them - it was for a reason.

The bard didn’t exactly smell like an omega, but he so often smelled of scented lotions and oils that even Geralt's Witcher senses were confused. He’d also noticed a glass vial containing powder that Dandelion would mix into his own drink at times, and suspected that might have something to do with it. A suppressant of some sort, which, while certainly not encouraged by the masses, wasn’t illegal.

So Geralt didn’t question him, and instead opted not to notice. He would have continued that way if it wasn’t for an incident with a monster in which Dandelion ended up poisoned and he’d had to shove an antidote down his throat. Even after that, he wouldn’t have thought anything of it - Dandelion’s smell seemed stronger, but that could have been chalked up to fear - if not for the fact that the poet vanished as soon as they’d made camp.

“Dandelion?” Geralt called, glancing around. The troubadour’s lute was still propped against his bags, but the poet himself was nowhere in sight.

He frowned, then stomped off into the trees, following the soft impressions that Dandelion’s boots had left in the ground.

The poet was sprawled against a tree, panting. As Geralt approached, he pulled one hand from the front of his trousers, but it wasn’t difficult to guess what he’d been doing. The smell of him hit the Witcher like a brick wall.

Geralt swore. “You’re in heat.”

Dandelion nodded. “It seems that antidote you gave me erased my suppressants as well.”

“Dandelion, I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” said the poet curtly.

“I should have-” Geralt trailed off. Should have what? Waited to see if the monster venom was deadly? Asked Dandelion if he could save his life? “I suppose asking wouldn’t have helped.”

“Well, destiny certainly doesn’t ask what we want,” he laughed shakily. “Me, Geralt? I don’t give a whit about the genitalia of my partner, so long as I’m the dominant party.” He shook his head. “But my- my _sickness_ won’t allow for that- no, not at all. I’ve got to be the one on my back, the one having something shoved inside me. The one being _bred_ like a broodmare. Do you think women truly enjoy it, or do you think they’re just lying?”

“I’d say it’s a case by case basis.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right. After all, I know men who claim to enjoy it. Ha! Fools and degenerates, the lot of them.”

“I never thought of you as homophobic.”

“I’m not,” snapped the poet. “As I said, I’ve bedded men before, I just don’t understand what they find so pleasing about having something shoved up their ass. It’s meant for shitting, Geralt!”

It was clear the poet was suffering, otherwise, Geralt doubted he would have said such callous things. He knelt, keeping a careful distance. “What do you want me to do, Dandelion?”

“You’re an alpha, aren’t you? What is it you alphas typically would do?”

“I can control it. Side effect of the mutations. And I don’t- Dandelion, I’m not going to force you.”

“Well, thank you,” said the poet haughtily. “I’m glad you - unlike the rest of the continent - have the decency to ask before shoving me to the ground and fucking me senseless.” He sighed, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. “I’m terribly sorry, Geralt. I can’t imagine I’m pleasant to be around at the moment.”

Geralt sat slowly, careful not to do anything that might come off as threatening or domineering. “There’s a stream near camp. Think the water might help?”

“Geralt, I do appreciate the sentiment, but this isn’t an ordinary erection. Cold water is not going to do a thing for me.”

“Dandelion, I will take you, if that’s what you need.”

“How kind of you,” sneered the poet.

Geralt winced at his own choice of words. “But only if it’s what you _want_.”

Dandelion gave him a slightly suspicious look.

“Whatever you want,” Geralt said softly. “If you want me to leave you here, I’ll go back to camp and let you wait this out. Or- would it be enough to use my mouth?”

“Ah, no,” said the poet with a snort. “I appreciate the offer, but it takes a lot more than a mouth on me to end this mess.” He brushed sweaty hair from his face, scanning Geralt curiously. “I-I suppose it could work. At least you’re sterile, which is a relief.” He snorted. “Alright, very well, as long as you swear never to mention it again.”

“I won’t.”

It seemed Dandelion was content to roll over right where he was, once he’d made up his mind to let Geralt take him, but the Witcher took his hand, guiding him back to camp. The troubadour’s legs trembled as they walked, and he leaned heavily against the other man. Geralt considered picking him up, but given Dandelion’s already tetchy mood, he decided not to push his luck.

Before Geralt could ask if he’d prefer to be on his back or his front, kicked off his boots, pulled his pants down, carefully unbuttoned his shirt, and flopped out on his stomach. It seemed that, in spite of everything, he was still meticulous about caring for his clothes. Geralt almost laughed.

He knelt beside Dandelion, rubbing his shoulder carefully, trying not to look at his ass, where slick was already leaking out of him. “If you ask, I’ll stop-”

“Well, that’s lovely because I’m not going to be able to ask, not once you start.” The poet sighed, shifted enough to glance over his shoulder, and said, “I- I do appreciate the offer, however, I want you to know that.” He sighed, then grumbled, “Get it over with, _please_ Geralt.”

Geralt had been with omegas before, and a few while they were in heat, but he’d never felt guilty about it, not like he did when he pressed his nose into Dandelion’s neck, inhaling his scent and letting himself become aroused. He struggled out of his own clothes with far less care than Dandelion had, then slipped a finger inside the poet.

A soft hiss rewarded his curiosity. “Geralt, I _assure_ you, I need no preparation, just-” when he removed the finger, Dandelion whined, throwing back his head and sobbing loudly.

He wasted no time in pressing inside the poet, letting out a moan at the feeling. Warm and wet, he could barely comprehend that it was a man beneath him, so willing and - he stopped his train of thought, reminding himself that was exactly why Dandelion hated his condition.

He wasted no words, knowing that his friend wouldn’t want to hear them, instead, he pressed inside him as deep as he could, then pulled out, then pressed in again. For a moment, he thought Dandelion wasn’t feeling what he was doing, still stiff and tense beneath him. Then the troubadour shuttered and Geralt realized how tense the man had been.

“There’s no shame in enjoying this,” Geralt said, starting to pant slightly. “But if you pull a muscle from holding still, I will never let you forget it.”

“I don’t want to enjoy it, damn it,” Dandelion snarled through his teeth. His tendency to womanize was beginning to make much more sense, the more Geralt thrust him into the forest floor. Clearly it was meant to be making up for the shitty hand he’d been dealt in life.

Soon they were both beyond words, and Dandelion finally seemed to relax, gasping and whimpering with each thrust. Geralt’s stamina came in handy, for once, as Dandelion spent himself three time times before the Witcher came, filling him with seed.

“Fuck,” moaned the poet. “Geralt- I- I’m still-”

“I know Dandelion.” He rubbed his friend’s back as he waited for himself to harden again. “Roll onto your back and I’ll suck-”

“No,” said Dandelion curtly. “I don’t want that Geralt.”

The Witcher nodded, pressing his fingers into the poet’s ass inside to tide him over. Seemingly of its own accord, Dandelion’s hole clenched around him, the poet whimpering and sobbing as Geralt fingered him. Dandelion was loose enough he could probably have shoved his entire hand inside the troubadour, but despite his curiosity, he knew the troubadour would be hard-pressed to forgive him if he did.

Finally, he was ready for another round, and pressed back inside the poet, thrusting him into the forest floor. Dandelion whimpered and whined, spending himself over and over as Geralt carefully waited out his own climax for as long as possible each time.

It took hours before Dandelion finally seemed to be close to the end of his heat, and by that time they were both filthy, stained with mud, grass, and cum. But the poet remained on his stomach, not letting Geralt turn him over or even wrap an arm around him.

After yet another climax, Geralt pulled out, prepared to wait for himself to be ready for another round.

“It’s over,” Dandelion said softly, as he tried to place his fingers back inside him again. “It’s been over for a few minutes, I think.”

Geralt’s chest tightened. “You should have-”

“Should have what?” The poet turned his head, glancing at the Witcher over his shoulder. “You’ve done me a great service, Geralt, I could stand letting you finish one last time.”

He wanted to scold Dandelion, to tell him that he could have finished himself with his hand, that the poet was in no way obligated to let Geralt continue thrusting into him once the heat had finished. He wanted to say that he should have noticed.

Instead he nodded and brushed sweat-soaked curls off Dandelion’s face. “Come now,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned.”

Dandelion was too weak - too well fucked - to walk, so Geralt carried him, wadding into the pond with Dandelion pressed against his chest. “You- you can put me down,” the troubadour mumbled. “I can sit- ah- on a- on a rock.”

Obediently he found a rock he could sit Dandelion on, where there was another he could lean against. “I’m going to get soap and rags.” Geralt splashed out of the water, leaving the exhausted troubadour behind.

When he returned, Dandelion seemed to have composed himself, at least to an extent, and he took the soap and rag that Geralt offered him wordlessly. “This doesn’t change things, Geralt,” he said slowly, watching the Witcher uneasily.

“Why would it, Dandelion?”

“I suppose I’ve been slighted one too many times, my friend. Too many people - once they’ve had a cock in me - see me as nothing more than a warm hole.”

Geralt considered his reply carefully. “I will always help you if you need it, Dandelion. But that is all. I ask for nothing in return, except for your friendship.”

The troubadour smiled. “I think I could manage that, although if I never have another heat I’ll be far happier for it.”

Geralt dunked his head underwater, rubbing his tangled hair. When he emerged, Dandelion was humming. “Composing?”

“I could make a ballad of this,” he said. “I won’t, but I could. It would be a lovely ballad, telling of the Witcher and his heart; his kindness for a lowly omega.”

“You’re not a lowly anything, Dandelion.”

“Oh, I know.” The poet grinned. “Believe me Geralt, I’m not like most omegas, I know exactly how important I am.”

“Do you think most omegas are weak?”

“I think anyone who is content to be used as a broodmare is weak. More so if they desire it. It’s why I can’t stand that Witch of yours.”

Geralt only nodded, deciding it was best if he didn’t argue. He couldn’t bring himself to agree with Dandelion’s views, but it wasn’t his place to correct him.

“How long have you known?” Dandelion’s question caught him off guard, and the Witcher looked up, raising an eyebrow. “I had myself convinced you must not have known - a foolish lie, yes - but you weren’t surprised at all when you found me.”

“You’re hardly obvious if that’s what concerns you,” said Geralt. “But I’ve seen you add something to your drink nearly every morning, and smelled you in the rain when you weren’t covered in oils and perfumes.”

Dandelion smiled. “Thank you, Geralt,” he said softly. “For not having mentioned it.”


End file.
